


the Misadventures of Pocket Stan

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Family Feels, Fluff, Gen, Shrinking, hurt stan, pocket stan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-05 03:12:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5358995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dumb fic about Stan being shrunk by those Size Crystal things only he can’t grow back right away because reasons </p><p>Basically, George Shrinks but with grumpy old men. Not sea-hobo complicit but not far off from canon either</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so I’ve been writing a bit because my counsellor told me to write every day, even if I have to force myself. But I’m still too stressed right now to work on Cooperation which requires plot thinking and details and setting events up and stuff. So instead I’m writing this
> 
> RIP im so unmotivated im just cutting what i put in from tumblr. 
> 
> please do not expect perfect spelling or capitalization.

“It'll just take a minute Stanley, oh it's so important for my studies, Stanley.” Stan grumped under his breath, imitating his twin's words in an obnoxious falsetto pitch. “You know I can't be leaving the shack, what if someone starts asking questions?”

Stan angrily smacked an unruly branch out of the way. He was too old for this, traipsing through the woods after escaped monsters. But Ford had practically pleaded- of course, coming from Ford it was more a demand than anything. And the fleeing creature hadn't been all that large, it didn't seem like it could run too fast either. So Stan had grudgingly agreed, and here he was, following a winding trail of acidic slime through the woods, cursing as the length far exceeded his expectations. 

Stan flipped another branch aside, only to flinch away at the sudden beam of coloured light that flickered in its place. “Oh, seriously?!” He hadn't even noticed where the monster had gone. Apparently it had decided on a detour through the size crystal area. There had been too many accidents here for Stan to ever enjoy the small series of clearings. Thankfully, size crystal mishaps were perfectly reversible, even if it was a pain in the butt when you'd managed to shrink your hands to doll size and double the size of your head. 

Stan was extremely wary about the various patches of crystals and the sunlight filtering through them. The slime trail came very close to several, and Stan paused at one- was that a chunk missing? The trail circled around to another patch of crystals, and that's when Stan started to pick up a sound- coming in patchy through his hearing aids. 

Stan crouched down low at the mysterious crunching, crushing noise. It was a little like ice cubes in the blender, only without the electronic whirring. And it was much more irregular, with pauses and sudden, louder snapping sounds. Slowly, both for stealth and to protect his back, Stan crept forward. 

The sound was being made by the escaped monster. That, Stan had been expecting. What Stan hadn't been expecting, was for the creature to be going to town on one of the bigger size crystals, crunching big chunks off with its teeth and dissolving them within seconds in the strange gelatinous body that hung off its skeleton. 

Stan grit his teeth. As weird as it was that the creature was both unaffected by the size crystals and seemed to consider them a food source, now was not the time. It was uncomfortable being out here and crouching down like this, and Stan would have rather been relaxing at home the past hour and a half instead of chasing this thing down on Ford's behalf. If Ford wanted to record this thing's habits and actions, he could have tracked it himself. 

Quietly, Stan loaded the crossbow. But it wasn't quiet enough- the monster froze mid-crunch. Stan sighed, knowing the jig was up, and straightened suddenly from his cover. “Take this!” Stan had just enough time to line his shot up, not needing much aim at this range. 

Stan also had just enough time to comprehend that something was being spit at him before he was covered in liquid. It was a liquid that immediately burned, and Stan yelped at the suddenness. At the same time, the monster screeched, the bolt having torn a piece of its skeleton from the slime body. Not a direct enough hit, then.

Quickly, rushing, Stan wiped his face and pulled another crossbow bolt. But suddenly, the bolt was big, growing bigger. The spray Stan had been hit by burned again, seeming almost to sizzle off his skin. And then he was falling, the ground rushing up to meet him.

Stan cursed, knowing what was happening even before taking in the larger than life grass blades he'd landed on. The monster screeched again, and ran off, but Stan could only muster a groan. “Great, not only did it get away, I got shrunk by vomit.” After all, what else could it be? The thing had just been eating shrinking crystal. There was no sunlight, but probably being dissolved could have altered the way it worked. 

That was neither here nor there. Stan, being a practical sort, knew he needed to find a patch of growth light before anything else. It was highly uncomfortable being this size- Stan didn't think he had more than five inches, and that was being generous. 

“Ugh, that's it, Ford can find the monster in his own time,” Stan grunted as he started his way to one of the larger formations, now towering in height and seeming terribly far. “I'm getting back to normal, then going home and taking a nice long nap.” Or perhaps a bath first, his joints were not appreciating the work out he'd already subjected them to, nor did they like climbing up comparatively giant crystal formations.

It took a fair amount of effort, but Stan did finally catch sight of a shrink beam. “Heh, good thing it's not dark out,” Stan shivered at the idea of being left like this all night. Gratefully, he scrambled over one last clump of dirt and practically sprinted into the beam of light.

Nothing happened. 

Stan paused. “Come on!” He waved his arms up. He knew these things had nearly no delay. “Don't do this to me now...” He double-checked that he had the right beam. But if he had the wrong beam, wouldn't he be shrinking further? The grass around him stubbornly remained the same relative size. 

Stan jumped, turned, fell on his back and spread out like he was trying to catch a tan. Nothing. Stan stayed down, trying to think. But all he could think was, “This ain't good.” It probably had some weird scientific answer about how the delivery system- monster puke- altered something important that would change the method of reversal. That mattered, but certainly not right now. 

Stan slowly sat up, trying to catch sight of the trail he had used to get here. It was hard to spot, considering he wasn't much taller than the grass. But Stan had developed a solid sense of direction over the years, and soon enough he spotted where he'd left off. But could Stan even make it back to the shack like this? With these legs, he probably wouldn't make it to nightfall. That wasn't even accounting for whatever forest creatures would love to eat him or something. Stan knew he couldn't put up much of a fight against anything.

So would it be best to wait out here until Ford managed to tear himself away from work long enough to wonder what happened to him? Stan snorted, the question practically answered itself. That could be days, without Stan there to bug Ford about sleep. In the meantime, it wasn't as if Stan was the only thing that knew about the Size Crystals. If Stan were a forest predator, especially a smart, supernatural one, he would definitely put this place into his rounds, and keep an eye out for helpless idiots like him who got trapped in small forms.

Stan let out a loud sigh before carefully standing up, stretching his back as he did so. “This is not gonna be fun...” But there was no use griping. It was a case of 'when push comes to shove', and the answer to that, for Stan at least, was to grit your teeth and keep pushing in turn. Stan made his way to the trail, and double checked that he was facing the way he came instead of the way the monster had gone. Then, Stan got moving. 

It was a long trip. Stan took several breaks, not wanting to injure something, especially in his current state. He cursed quietly when the sun started to set- he wasn't anywhere near the shack. He knew the trail was somewhat winding, but Stan couldn't risk going off of it. As good as Stan's sense of direction was, he knew it was crippled by the fact that nothing looked familiar from this height. Getting lost like this was not an option.

It had been dark for some time when Stan heard loud thumping. He ducked under a root, not wanting to get trampled, or worse, targeted by whatever was so big. Only, as the thumping thing veered closer, Stan caught sight of a pair of boots, and perhaps the hem of a long coat, though it was hard to tell in the dark. Was that-?

Stan decided to take the chance. Who else could be following the slime trail? Who else traipsed through these woods at all with any level of confidence. “Hey, Ford!” Stan poked out from the root, shouting as loud as he could. He didn't know how quiet he would be at this size. 

The boots continued on their way for half a second, before freezing. “Stan!? What-?” The voice was loud, almost too loud, but familiar. Stan would never admit this to a living soul, but at that moment he could have cried.

“Down here, Poindexter!” 

The sheer size of his twin was unbelievably unnerving. From the ground, Stan even had trouble making out Ford's face. Stan waved his arms, finally catching Ford's attention. Suddenly, he was being boxed in as Ford crouched down and immediately scooped Stan up. “Hey, watch it!” Stan held back the panic from his voice at being trapped by giant limbs that could so easily squash him. 

“What the- Stanley, were you by the Crystals? How did you get all the way back here?”

Stan rolled his eyes. “No, where else can people be shrunk Of course I was by the Size Crystals. And I walked. The growth beams weren't working.”

Completely ignoring the last of Stan's sentence, Ford sighed. “You could have fixed this on your own, you know. The same crystals will size you up when light hits it from the opposite angle. What a waste of time...”

“Ugh,” Stan scoffed. “If you'd kept listening, I'd have told you that the growth beam didn't work-”

“Didn't work!? What? How? What happened?” Ford brought his hands- and Stan- closer to his face as his voice picked up with interest. Stan stumbled at the sudden movement, falling to his bottom.

“Yeesh, cool it. You're not the one shrunk.” Carefully, Stan stood up again, but it was hard when he was standing on a giant hand. It was especially difficult to find steady footing when the floor was squishy and unsteady, but Stan managed. A man had to have some dignity. “It was the monster. I found it eating one of those Crystals. Just snapping it off and dissolving it. When I went to shoot it, the stupid thing spat that mess right at me. Hurt, too.”

Ford paused. And then his eyes lit up. “Fascinating! And the liquefied crystal was able to shrink you? It shouldn't be able to do that, it's the unique formation of the solid crystal that allows photons passing through to carry that property. Even then, only from a specific angle. What happened to the liquid? Is there enough left to make samples?”

Stan scowled, scrunching his nose unpleasantly. “Thanks for being so concerned. I've only been trapped at 5 inches high and forced to trek all day like this, worrying that a fox or weasel or something might decide I make a decent snack.”

Ford sighed, looking like he wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose, but knowing he couldn't when his hands were occupied. “You're obviously fine, Stanley, and I can measure you properly later but I guarantee you aren't more than 4 inches at most. This is valuable information that is necessary for me creating a counter measure. If the beam couldn't reverse it, then I doubt anything else will naturally. Unless of course this is a temporary effect, which it may be. Perhaps the liquid only needs to evaporate. Or it could be something that naturally breaks down in its own time...”

“Look, I hope samples aren't necessary because it burned itself off by the time I was this size.” 

“Burned? What do you mean?”

Stan crossed his arms stubbornly. “I wasn't exactly paying attention, but it felt like burning. Hurt like a bugger, but not as bad as tear gas. When I was shrunk, I couldn't feel any on me.”

Ford paused for a long moment. “Huh.” 

“That's all you have to say?”

“Shh, I'm thinking. I've never heard of this happening before.”

It didn't look like Ford was going to come back to reality anytime soon, his mind clearly deep into the mystery. “Look, can you think back at the shack? I've been hiking all day, and let me tell you- it's much harder from this size. It's dark, and I'm hungry and thirsty and tired.”

Ford startled at that. “What- oh, of course. I didn't think, of course we should head back. Not much can be done right now anyways, and maybe you will return to normal by tomorrow.”

“One can only hope,” But Stan was sarcastic. He was sarcastic because he knew these things never resolved themselves so easily. He knew very well it was never the easy fix when it came to the mysteries of Gravity Falls. 

Immediately, Ford started striding back the way he had come. The pace was blisteringly fast compared to what Stan had been going at. Instinctively, he gripped one of Ford's fingers as he caught a look at the ground almost whipping by below. And wasn't that embarrassing? Searching for a way to distract himself, Stan peered up at Ford again. 

“Why did you come out anyways? I thought you'd be occupied for the next 48 hours at least.”

“You hadn't come back! What was I supposed to do, just leave you? Based on the speed of the specimen, you couldn't have taken much more than two hours to catch up to it.” 

Stan raised a brow at the answer, letting out a sound of disbelief. “You noticed I wasn't back?”

“Well,” It was too dark to tell, but Stan thought he maybe saw a wince from Ford. “I may have gotten to the point where I needed the specimen, but found it still missing.”

“Oh, that does make more sense.” Stan nodded to himself.

“You know, I would have noticed you missing on my own.”

“Yeah, eventually. After you pass out from lack of food.” 

“Oh shut up.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ford and stan don't get along

Stan barely remembered being dropped off on his bed, Ford asking the compulsory “Are you alright for now, then?” Before disappearing. Stan, for his part, was out like a light after crawling under the edge of the blanket. 

Waking up the next day was uncomfortable. It took a fair few moments to realize something was off, that his bed wasn't really so big. And then, Stan let out a long, well deserved groan of annoyance. “This is... this is just great.” Stan scrambled out from under the blanket. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of sweat from his clothes- the same he had worn yesterday.

Of course they would be the same clothes, Stan realized. He wouldn't have anything else that fit. “Ugh,” Stan voiced again. Then again, Stan was used to living in sweaty, dirty clothing for long periods of time. 

Right. First things first. Stan crawled as close to the edge of the bed as he could. The drop looked almost dizzying from here. He was suddenly very thankful for Mabel's ham fisted attempts to fix his fear of heights. It had been somewhat horrifying at the time, but it did put things into perspective. Stan's nerves were rattled, yes, but he pushed that to the back of his mind. He had to get down somehow.

There was the bed sheet of course, but it was buried under the comforter from when Stan has made his bed the previous morning. There would be far too much friction to pull it out. There was the side table by his bed, but there was nothing he could use for footholds, and nothing on there that would help him scale down. 

That only left the pillow. It was huge, but it was also a pillow, and already close to the edge. Stan reached for the tip and pulled. It didn't budge, even when he put his entire back into it. Stan slipped, his foot catching in a wrinkle of the bottom sheet. “This is going to be a long day, isn't it?” There was no one to answer him. 

Stan had managed to carefully and painfully make his way to the kitchen. Thankfully, there was a dirty pile of clothes to hop into from the bed, softening the fall even if it didn't soften the brief terror of making the jump. The stairs hadn't been fun either, but ultimately they were short enough distances to make. Stan had even made it to the kitchen counter, having unlaced a shoe in order to have a rope to grapple up with. Stan had the lace securely wound around his waist as he poked around the counter looking for something to eat. 

It was at that point that Ford finally emerged, hair ruffled and glasses askew. He startled at the sight of Stan trying to yank the plastic tag holding the bread bag shut. “Er, let me help you with that.” Ford's giant hand loomed over Stan to grab the loaf of bread, swiftly pulling the tag off and sliding a slice out. Just as easily, he folded it back up and strode across to the coffeemaker and then to the table, like it hadn't taken Stan a good twenty minutes to accomplish the same. 

“Morning to you too, sixer.” Stan wondered if it would be worth it to ask Ford to grab him a table knife. Then again, it wasn't as if Stan could properly use one. The metal was cheap and light, so he could probably lift it, but he didn't have the leverage necessary to use one. The alternative of course was to eat the bread plain. What to do, what to do. 

“Stan, what in the world are you doing?” Stan paused at the sudden voice, dropping the piece of bread he'd ripped off and pushed into the butter. 

“What does it look like I'm doing? Not like I can use a knife.” Stan retrieved his prize and scraped it against the side of the butter dish, removing the excess. 

“You're getting crumbs everywhere.”

Stan sighed. “What do you want from me, Ford? It took a marathon to get off the bed and down the stairs and up the counter. I can't even get any coffee. I'm not going to eat my bread plain on top of that.”

Ford's expression fell. “Oh, right.” As if he hadn't considered the difficulties of being smaller than a rat. Then again, this was Ford. He probably hadn't. “If you want, I can pour you some?” 

Stan rolled his eyes. “We got something small enough for me to even hold?”

Ford paused, frowned guiltily, and shook his head. “Right.” Stan continued in the silence. He had some bread to eat. It was too bad he couldn't really toast it. Well, he could but that would be more work than it was worth.

“After breakfast, I need to take some measurements.” Ford changed the topic. “Then, I'll have to retrieve the specimen itself and add some extra studies to see how to reverse engineer this. I'll probably need a sample of the crystal as well...”

“Well, just make sure you don't get spit on yourself.” Stan couldn't help being somewhat snide.

“My reflexes are much better than yours Stanley, I have nothing to worry about.”

Sta snorted, but left it. If they got into a fight, Stan wouldn't even be able to walk it off. He finished off the chunk of bread- it sure had a weird texture at this scale. Stan brushed the crumbs off and started to unwind the shoelace. Which would be the rout down from here?

Hands were suddenly closing in on him and Stan yelped. “Hey, what gives!” He kicked out at the fingers instinctively, but the hands slipped his feet out from under him and lifted.

“Stop squirming Stan, honestly! Didn't I just say I needed measurements after breakfast?” Stan tried to gain his footing, but Ford was moving too fast and he fell against his palm again. “Stop moving, you might hurt yourself.” The hand Stan was on cupped inward, the other coming forward to support the shape of a bowl. 

Stan's heart skipped a beat at the sheer vulnerability, his brain struggling not to panic at how unable he was. He could be squeezed, crushed, dangled. Stan wouldn't be able to escape, and even if he was on the ground, he'd be easily plucked up again. It was only through force of will that Stan stopped himself descending into full blown flight mode. It was just Ford, and Ford wouldn't do something like that no matter how much they failed to get along. And also, Stan refused to admit being scared, especially to Ford. So he bit his lip and stayed seated, trying not to pay too much attention to how Ford's fingers caged him. 

It almost felt like Ford had slammed him onto the table. Stan bit back a shout as Ford's sudden dumping motion caused him to hit his bad knee against the hard metal surface. Of course, both of his knees were bad, but this was the worse one, thanks to a decades old bullet wound. “Give a man some warning!” He settled with shouting. For sighed, mumbled a half apology, and was already mentally gone, rooting around for something or other.

'Or other', ended up being a scale and a measuring tape, of course. “Stanley, could you stand on the tab there? Good.” Stan wrinkled his nose at the numbers on the bright yellow tape, but obliged, standing with his back as straight as it ever went anymore. 

Ford huffed, crouching down so that his eyes were on level. “That's... 8.9 centimetres. Three and a half inches, about.”

“Seriously?” Stan knew he was short, but hearing the number was even worse. He scowled as Ford scratched the number down onto a pad of paper. Ford set his pen down and pushed several buttons on the electronic scale, and Stan dodged the other hand as it unthinkingly went to grab Stan like a claw. “Hey, watch it, Poindexter!” 

Ford paused. “What do you mean? I was just putting you on the scale.” His hands twitched, ready to grab again. 

“That's what I'm saying! Stop- stop handling me!” Stan wasn't sure how to put it. 

“But if I waited for you to move places on your own, we'd be busy for hours.” Ford was genuinely confused. Stan sighed. It was clear that Ford couldn't appreciate how uncomfortable being so tiny was. Not that Stan was in a rush to go into details. 

“Yeah, I get that, just- you need to warn a guy first, give him options. I can get to the stupid scale without your help. No need to rush into the grabbing.” To prove his point, Stan strode confidently to the scale and scrambled up the side. Was he being too telling? But if he didn't say anything Ford would continue to manhandle.

“Oh, uh, I guess it's uncomfortable being picked up?” Ford's brows furrowed slightly in thought, even as he peered down to the scale numbers. 

“Uncomfortable's one word for it.” Stan huffed. 

“Right, er, sorry then.” Ford scribbled the result down on the paper. “I'm going to bring you upstairs now?”

It still wasn't really a question, and therefore not really asking permission. But for Ford, it was progress. Stan nodded, stepping into Ford's palm with as much dignity as he could muster. Still, the way Ford's hands automatically cupped, caging him in, was enough to make Stan uncomfortable. “Ah, where do you want to go?”

Stan considered the thought. On the one hand, he hadn't had anything to drink yet, nor did he really know how to go about it without potentially falling into whatever cup it was put in. On the other hand, he was bored, his joints and muscles ached, and he's really just rather find a place to relax. 

“The side table in the living room. Also, can you get the remote and some water in the smallest thing we have?”

Stan wondered if that was pushing it, as Ford immediately scowled at the idea of being ordered around. Then, finally, he rolled his eyes and nodded. The remote was miraculously already there, and Ford disappeared for a moment before returning with a small disposable plastic dip container, leftover from the pizza they had ordered a few nights ago. 

“That's not from the garbage, is it?” Stan sniffed suspiciously as Ford placed it down. He'd washed it out at least before filling it halfway with water. Still, to Stan it was at least a bucket full, more than enough to drink from.

“No, but would it have really mattered?” Ford was frustrated. Still, Stan was almost taken aback. He wanted to start something now? Because Stan could end it, thumbelina sized or no. But then, Ford was straightening again, patting his coat down to make sure the right science gadgets were tucked away. “Right, I'll be gone most of the day. This should be impossible in your current state, but stay out of the basement, and don't destroy anything while I'm gone.” 

Stan clenched his fist as a surge of righteous anger flared in his chest. “Hey, I kept the house standing for 30 years- that's five times longer than you did!” Ford only scoffed at that before slamming the door behind him. “Jerk. If anyone around here needs to be reminded on how to not destroy things, it ain't me.” 

Stan huffed one more time before turning to the TV. The remote buttons were much harder to press like this, but Stan managed. More annoying was the hard surface of the side table- actually a dinosaur skull of some kind. It wasn't kind on Stan's behind, but there wasn't anything for it- if Stan had chosen the chair, he could end up lost in it, and he wouldn't be able to access the water, either. 

Stan hoped that Ford could fix this soon. It was such a pain.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan takes a tumble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /yay  
> i think I'm ready to do the next cooperation is mandatory chapter after this.
> 
> as for the next chapter of this story, I imagine visitors. After all, even if the shack isn't running how likely is it that soos WOULDN'T drop by all the time?? ((and also how likely is it that ford wouldnt want to rekindle his friendship with mcgucket and try to make up for all that happened...))

It was almost funny. For all that being small should vastly increase the space in a house, it sure did work to make you feel trapped. Of course, Stan could have thought things through more carefully, but there wasn't much one could do when they were so used to being many times bigger. Sure, Stan had his fill of television, wasting an entire day by it since there wasn't much else he could do.

The problem was that, once he had finished watching as much TV as he could stand, Stan faced a dilemma. The dinosaur skull wasn't really a proper table. He could stand, and even pace somewhat to relax the cramping in his limbs from sitting on a cold hard surface all day. But Stan couldn't get too close to the edge before the ground started sloping severely. There was the nose of the skull, but it sloped strongly as well, and was relatively narrow besides.

Not that Stan had much of an option. He tried to massage some more life into his lower back. It had really not appreciated the solid table, nor the fact that the only thing he could really lean against was the equally hard remote control. There was the chair, he could make a running leap and probably make it to the arm. He could try tying the shoelace to the remote and rappelling down. On second thought, the remote didn't look nearly heavy enough for that. 

Stan judged the distance to the chair arm, before deciding again on the skull snout. It wasn't that narrow, surely? And it didn't involve jumping, which Stan wasn't all that confident about given yesterday's hike and today's uncomfortable rest. Stan sat as close to the edge as he dared, and slid closer as carefully as he could, making his way further down with a slow crab crawl. 

The ground dipped, and Stan pressed his back further down, hoping that the friction would be enough to stop him sliding. Then Stan pushed forward again, his legs and arms spread for maximum stability. 

It wasn't enough. “Son of a-” Stan scrabbled for something to hold onto, something to steady and his body slipped under the smooth bone surface. The lower portion of the nose rushed towards him, and for a second Stan thought it would be fine, that he would slide to a stop right where he wanted. That was, of course, when Stan's centre of mass managed to slip off track and the flat plane he'd been aiming for veered sharply away.

The sky tilted, and Stan's insides seemed to fly into his throat at the sudden freefall. He tumbled, twisting, and then his breath was completely knocked out in a sudden, shattering thump. 

It seemed to take ages before Stan could cough out a wheeze. His mind scattered, and reoriented itself. “That wasn't what I wanted,” Stan tested his voice. Somewhat shaky, but he was alive. He took a few more breaths, reveling in the numb sort of pain that was more distant than real. 

When Stan tried to sit up, he regretted it. “Oh, come on!” He winced at the blinding sharp pain lancing up his arm. He'd landed on that arm, it was to be expected. Stan didn't want to look at it, didn't want to know what he would do if it was broken. How would they even fix it? What materials were small enough? And did Ford even had the coordination needed to help wrap or splint it? 

Then again, there was no denying reality, the whole family had gotten more than their fair share of that lesson after the whole apocalypse business. Just because Stan wasn't looking didn't mean the problem would go away. 

Stan stole a peek, and then winced. He'd managed to dislocate his shoulder, just great. No wonder it was burning. He knew how to quickly set it, had done so multiple times before. Each time had been exceedingly horrible, and Stan thought he'd been done with that nonsense after coming to gravity falls. Apparently, that wasn't the case.

Stan groaned, knowing what he had to do. Ford wasn't around, still out doing who knew what. There wasn't even really anything to bite in order to clench through the pain. Stan sighed, deciding to just roll up the front hem of his shirt a bit and use that. The cloth was thin and worn, just his usual lounging shirt. But it was better than nothing. Stan did just that with his good arm, while also carefully inspecting the rest of himself. He could move his toes, which was good, but one leg was either sprained or just very sore, and there would definitely be nasty bruises all along his side and some of his back, since he'd landed in a bit of a twist. 

This was why they always emphasized the importance of a controlled fall, in boxing. Heck, in anything where you regularly fell. Stan groaned in pure, self piteous misfortune, before resolutely pulling the rolled up shirt between his teeth. It left his chest exposed, but even if there was anyone else in the house, Stan couldn't be bothered to care. 

Slowly, he felt for the problem arm. Just nudging it was unbelievably painful. Stan clenched his molars into the cloth more firmly, and reached for the somewhat familiar grip he knew he needed. There had to be enough leverage to pop it back in, and as quickly as possible. When Stan felt as lined up as he was going to get, he squeezed his eyes closed. There was no point to a countdown, no point to dallying about or being slow in any fashion. So with one swift, strong motion, Stan yanked his arm into place.

Stan screamed into his makeshift gag. Tears spawned in the corner of his eyes, unbidden. Stan rode the flash of pain, his arm burning up, biting so hard he was sure his dentures might crack. And then it was over. Rather, not quite over but more faded. Something he could manage, pins and needles of disturbed nerves making their complaints heard.

Stan should really move. He had a strong urge to find somewhere safe, somewhere less exposed than here. But that would be counterproductive. Stan didn't even know what other injuries he had. His arm could very well be fractured too- just because bone wasn't sticking out didn't mean it wasn't broken somewhere. Plus, Stan wasn't even sure if he could move, the possibly sprained ankle throbbing just from the instinctive curling in he had done when re-locating his shoulder. And even beyond that- where would he go? Stan knew he'd never be able to get at the first aid in the upstairs bathroom cabinet, nor would he be able to even use any of it.

In the end, there wasn't much Stan could do. He tried to make himself as comfortable as possible, but there was nothing. He wasn't even sure he could make it to the base of the chair, where at least there'd be a surface to lean against. So instead, Stan tried to lie down as comfortably as possible, difficult as it was with his fresh mass of bruises. “Sixer better be back soon,” Stan grumped, deciding to turn his pain into plain annoyance. “He's sure taking his sweet time.”

Stan would have fallen asleep if he could have. But unfortunately, that was far too difficult. He couldn't even really change his position much, something vital to stopping his old bones from locking up painfully. That was just on top of whatever the fall did to him. But Stan had been through worse, not the least of which was an actual apocalypse. He did wish, for a moment, that the kids hadn't gone back to California. Stan bet they'd be willing to help their grunkle out without rudely manhandling him and disappearing for far too long. 

Finally, much too long later, the front door unlocked and opened. “Stan, I'm back!” Ford practically bellowed. “The results aren't conclusive but I'm certain I'm onto something.” Stan felt more than heard the massive foot steps of his twin as he lumbered into the house, the vibrations almost painful this close to the ground. 

“In here! And I could use a little help!” Stan took as much care as he could to keep his voice even, gruff. But doing so was hard, Ford's every footstep sent pain shooting up his body. At the same time, far too much relief flooded Stan's mind as he realized- finally, maybe something could be done to stop the hurt entirely. On top of all of that was the sharp dislike of having to ask Ford for help in the first place. He would give Stan that look, wouldn't he? He would give a look of pure judgement and complain about how Stan should be more careful, just look at the extra work he was creating, why should Ford have to deal with this when he was already trying to fix Stan's stupid mistake in the first place--

“Stan!?” Ford was at the entrance to the living room, eyes widening as he caught sight of Stan's crumpled form. “What happened- what's wrong?” He crossed the room in effortless strides, and Stan hunched his shoulders despite the pain as Ford crouched down, completely enveloping his view. Warm breath from gargantuan lungs ruffled Stan's hair and clothes, sending an uncomfortable shiver down his spine. It was stupid, Ford was here to help. Stan hated it, just as he hated having to admit his next words. 

“I fell off the table, landed wrong.” Stan bit the inside of his cheek harshly as fingers thicker than his arms hovered closer, closing any escape routes and almost blocking out the light. “What does it look like?” Stan tried to redirect, worried that at this close distance, Ford might actually be able to hear the sudden pounding of his heart, or see the cold paleness of his face. And Ford could never know that he intimidated Stan, no matter how logical it was. If he did find out and by some miracle didn't use it against Stan in the future, then it was only a matter of time until Ford figured out that he sometimes intimidated Stan a bit even at normal size. 

Not all the time, of course. Just sometimes, when Ford was a bit too anxious or a bit too twitchy with his gun. The times Stan should have been a concerned and loving brother, but couldn't hep but remember other times he had tried to calm down a man with a gun. The scar still ached in cold weather.

“Are you alright?” Ford's voice was loud, practically booming at this distance. “How long have you been lying here?” His pitch increased, almost piercing on the last syllable. Stan couldn't stop a violent wince that sent shots of pain down his bum arm. 

“A while. Not like I could get to the first aid.” Stan glanced down at his injuries. “You don't have anything to patch up anything my size, do you?”

Ford's hands, which had been fluttering closer in that nervous habit of his, finally withdrew an inch, curling slightly. “I-” he looked down. “What's the damage?” Ford's voice was strained, unable to hold back a nervous concern. Stan felt an immediate conflict. His sheer panic, barely held back as it was, fought against a sudden influx of guilt. Ford hadn't been annoyed or angry, he had been worried instead. That was almost worse than anger, which Stan was well used to dealing with by now. 

“I'm f-” Stan stopped himself. It was pure habit to push off any such inquiry. He could take care of himself, had done so for decades. Stan didn't ever want to need Ford's help. But he did need it, had just spend hours hoping for Ford to come back and help him. Stan cursed his bad luck in ending up shrunk like this in the first place. “I think I sprained my ankle. Bruised my side up pretty bad.” Stan took a breath. “And I may have dislocated my arm. Relocated it, but I'm not in much state to see if there's anything else wrong.”

Ford visibly flinched, and up close like this Stan could see every line of his expression. There was something incredibly sympathetic in the twist of his frown, and not in the piteous way either. Ford had known at one point what it was like to have to fix your own dislocated limb on the fly. Stan was uncomfortably reminded of the only place Ford was likely to have picked up such an experience. He didn't want to think about it, but at least that meant Ford was unlikely to panic or freak out. It meant he might actually have an idea of what to do, more or less.

As it turned out, Ford's expression did smooth over into a practical determination, even if the worried pinch of his brows grew stronger. “I have something. It's rare, expensive as all hell, but at you're size, you'll only need...” Ford let out a soft curse and stepped away entirely, rummaging in his jacket. Rather than emerge with some sort of mystery cure, he produced a notepad and flipped to a page, plucking the pencil from inside the spiral binding. 

“Uh, what're you doing, sixer? Hope you're not documenting this for posterity, cause I have to say it ain't fun just lying here.” Stan was honestly perplexed. He inwardly breathed a sigh of relief as Ford no longer completely smothered him with his terrifying hugeness, giving his nerves a chance to relax. But all the same, it was a bizarre move. Ford was a man of science, but also, especially since the portal, a man of action.

Ford looked up a moment from where he'd been scribbling in the notebook. “Stanley, I have to concentrate. You're so small that if I overdose by even point five milligrams, you would get fairybloom poisoning. Whole milligram over, and you're dead.” His eyes briefly flickered to the side, in a way Stan had learned from his various conning experience meant that Ford was reliving a memory. “Not a good way to go.” As if he hadn't said anything, Ford started scribbling more calculations.

Well then. Stan swallowed. He had never heard of fairybloom, but obviously it was some high grade stuff. Most likely interdimensional, but once again, Stan pushed that from his mind. It was fine, sixer knew what he was doing. Stan just needed to wait, and-

“Ah, that should be good.” As if pulling some sleight of hand trick, Ford suddenly whipped out two tiny vials, one filled with sparkling glitter, and the other with a solid black substance of some sort, so dark that it looked more like a hole floating in the air than liquid in a vial. “I just need..” Ford double checked his quick calculation as he also pulled a strange looking needle from another pocket. Stan froze for a moment, praying to any possible deity that he wouldn't need to get stuck with a needle as tall as he was. 

Ford pulled some nearly invisible cap from the needle, pressing several of the buttons on the needles base as he did so. It blinked, some display that Stan couldn't see illuminated one side of the needle. Ford stuck the sharp end, first in the liquid, then in the glitter. Both times, he waited for a light to go off before removing the needle. Then he pressed something else and shook the device lightly. 

Ford's eyes flicked over to Stan again. “It should be ready. Just mixing the solvent and solute. They can't be premixed, you know, it decays into an extremely poisonous and explosive gas within minutes.” He grinned wryly. “That's why you need a license to carry and use it. If it's not mixed just right, it won't be explosive right away, but the unmixed fairybloom can go airborne and is extremely toxic.”

Stan couldn't help an amused smile as Ford approached with the mixture. He always was attracted to dangerous, if useful, things. On the other hand, he almost always knew what he was doing even better than the adults who supposedly knew best. Stan trusted him on this. “When did you have time to pick up another license? Don't think I don't know how many PhDs you have over here, thought you'd be tired of that.”

Ford snorted at the light teasing. “Oh, that's a good one. Me, getting a license from the transdimensional learned medic association? Not a chance, even if I wanted one from those idiots, I'd be arrested first.”

“Uhh,” Stan was taken aback even as Ford started carefully filtering the mixture into a tiny cap at the bottom of the needle. “How do you have that stuff, then?”

Ford's grin turned slightly sharp. It was the look of a man past scorned, someone who maybe wouldn't necessarily burn your house down in revenge, but only because it would be too much work to dodge the cops afterwords. “Ah. I stole it, obviously.” He said it with an air that made it seem matter of fact, but his face screamed of personal justice. “Now, drink up.” Stan decided it was most likely a very interesting story, but one he would just as well appreciate not hearing. Briefly thanking the air that his needle prayer was answered, Stan took the cap.

Meant to be a very small container, even to Stan's hands it was manageable. The liquid inside, mixed now to a strange milky cream colour, was only a few mouthfuls. It didn't taste good or bad, but it did pinch and sting his throat as it slid down. 

“Alright. Now, you have to lie down very still for the next...” Ford glanced at his paper again, still clutched in one hand, “-five to six minutes. Before being fully absorbed, it will briefly become extremely explosive, even thought the poisonous aspect is immediately neutralized in stomach acid.” Still, despite the strong words, that slight twist in Ford's brows eased slightly. Stan knew he was more or less int he clear.

Still, Stan carefully stayed exactly put. “Let me guess, it ain't pretty?” 

Ford looked confused for a moment, hiding his vials and needle away again, in the depths of his coat. “Oh, right! No, it isn't. Usually, in a hospital setting the patient will be restrained down for this, just in case. This stuff can take out a whole wing. You've had less of course, but certainly enough to kill both of us and probably take the living room and kitchen out.” 

Despite trusting the situation, Stan felt a bit of sweat on his brow. It made the ache from his injuries and any concern over Ford's closeness fade into the background. “So,” Stan held back from the usual cough-and-clear-throat tactic of changing the topic. “Did you get anything from being gone all day? I thought you were just going to catch the thing and bring it back.”

Ford's face immediately pinched. “Yes, well, as a matter of fact I found out several things. I... thought it would be more practical to bring what I needed to study the creature out with me and perform my tests on site.” He glanced back at Stan, guilt resurfacing in his face. 

“More practical? In the middle of the woods?” Stan raised a brow. Ford sharply turned away.

“Yes, well.. I found out what I needed.” Ford shoved his hands in his pockets, rearranging himself into a different sitting position. “The creatures internal fluids are specially adapted to somehow maintain the size changing property even when the crystals have been dissolved and no light hits it. It instantly dissolved upon contact with skin, and thanks to the cancelling out properties of the original crystal, it can't be reversed with a growth beam, just as you've discovered.” 

“There is a way to fix it, though.” Stan was expectant. It had better not be going the way Ford made it sound like it was going. 

“Oh! Well, yes and no.” Ford pulled a hand from the outside pocket to scratch at the back of his head. “As I originally hypothesized, it will wear off. It's actually fascinating, this creature uses this specifically to hunt huge prey. When they are shrunken and digested, those same digestive fluids cause the shrink crystal to leech out bit by bit as needed, so that the creature gets the benefit of eating the full size prey without being burdened down by excess volume and mass.”

“So, I need that digestive stuff?” Stan made an admittedly childish disgusted face. 

“Well, no, that doesn't actualy do anything to the crystal fluid in your body. It's just the act of breaking down flesh that causes it to leech out faster. I've calculated that it will eventually break down on its own and be flushed out over the course of two to four weeks. There shouldn't be any other side effects, but I've never observed this before, and it isn't meant to affect living creatures for long. Still, the compound does infact have a half life, and it doesn't seem toxic or otherwise damaging...” Ford's lecturing, nerdy tone trailed off. “Er, you should- you will be alright.”

“I'll be out for-!?” Stan's breath left him as something suddenly shifted across his body. The weird interdimensional healing potion? His hurt shoulder buzzed and prickled. Not overly painful, but very, very weird. He tried to ignore it. “Sixer, I could be like this for a month?!” 

Ford had almost jumped at Stan's first exclamation, leaning in uncomfortably close. Thankfully Stan was too shocked to be intimidated when Ford raised his voice. “There's nothing I can do! You should be glad it wasn't a fast acting poison!” Ford bit his own lip sharply. “You aren't running the mystery shack anymore, nor are you really doing anything that would require leaving the shack. You'll survive, and its more likely to be two weeks anyways.” 

The strange buzzing moved down to his other injured areas, and Stan felt a bit dizzy. Still, that didn't stop the rising spark of frustration. “What about personal freedom? I can't do anything like this, Ford! I can barely move around the house, heck, I couldn't even get off the stupid coffee table properly!”

“You.. why would you try to jump off it on purpose? You told me you slipped.”

Stan growled. “You were gone all day! My joints are killing me spending that long on nothing but a hard floor. I haven't eaten since breakfast and I haven't used the washroom since yesterday in the woods!” 

Ford snapped his jaw shut. The guilt on his face doubled, but rather than feel bad, Stan instead felt annoyed. What good was general guilt if he still couldn't even attempt to understand Stan's position? 'Not doing anything', what a load! Just because Stan was less than a genius didn't mean that there was no value to anything he did. “I didn't... I didn't think about that.” Ford finally admitted.

Stan's anger stopped in its tracks. “Damn right you didn't”, he snarked reflexively. Since when did Ford admit to not thinking something through. Slowly, One of Fords hands came closer. Stan froze at it, forcing himself to relax as it approached his injured side gently, almost cradling. 

“I- I'm sorry Stanley. I probably look like I'm just ignoring your problem because I don't care,” Ford looked away sharply as if he couldn't both admit this and meet Stan's eyes. “ It's just- very weird to realize you're in a position of needing help. You've always been the more capable when it comes to setbacks between the two of us.”

“Sixer, what are talking abou-” Stan cut his own confusion off at Ford's sudden snort.

“Come on, Stanley. I'm not talking about book smarts. I was always better able to learn, and to create things. I'm talking about when you're in real trouble.” Ford swallowed, ducked his head slightly. “To be honest... if I had been the one kicked on the streets at seventeen, I'd have never survived. And if I did survive, I wouldn't have been half as stable as you were.”

They were thick words, filled with the emotion and drive of someone who had wanted to say that for a long time. Stan didn't really know how to respond to that. It made him feel bigger, somehow. Was this the recognition he'd always wanted? Stan hardly knew what it was like anymore to be acknowledged, certainly not about those years of his life. “Don't sell yourself short,” Stan finally replied, “From what I understand, the other side of the portal was a lot harder than being homeless on this planet, and you did it for longer.”

This earned a chuckle. “Thanks, that's, well, I suppose it's accurate. It wasn't easy, and I had to learn a lot of things. But I was already an adult, and there were plenty of years spent in nice places, here and there. In the parts of the multiverse that understand there is a multiverse, the attitude towards homeless travelers tends to be different. Not to say it was all positive, but, well.. I was far from the only one stuck in such a situation.” 

Silence filled the room, and Ford coughed. “Anyways, well, I just wanted to say, I'm not totally ignorant. I guess I just thought that if I avoided thinking about it, you'd come by for yourself just like you always do. But now, I realize- that isn't fair. Not that you aren't capable, but this is too difficult a situation to deal with.”

It was Stan's turn to turn his head down and away. Emotion hung heavy and thick in the air between them. “Yeah, thanks sixer.” Stan forced the words of gratitude out. He was grateful. It would be much easier to deal with being small with a Ford willing to help out. But it was also excruciatingly awkward. 

“Oh! You should be healed and good to move by now. It's been over six minutes.” Ford scratched his cheek sheepishly. Obligingly, Stan straightened, pleased to note that he didn't hurt at all. And then he froze again. “What's wrong! Are you still hurt?” Ford's eyes widened in surprise and concern.

“No, I'm not hurt.” Stan said carefully, trying not to move. He fought back a sudden wave of embarrassment. It was perfectly natural, and Stan Pines was not a man of shame. “Just, if you could work out a bathroom solution soon, or now. It's been all day, you know.” 

The half panicked, half grossed out expression on Ford's face was well worth having to admit the words out loud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry but I could NOT get the insistent question of "how is stan gonna go tot he washroom? When did he have time? Can old people really hold it in an entire day??" out of my head for the longest time. It's a question probably nobody asked. But too bad, you all get the answer anyways
> 
> also, if this were a real story, the bit with ford and the fairybloom medicine probably should have been cut. It almost totally breaks the writing rule of "if it doesn't serve a purpose, it shouldn't be there" but then again I always felt that Ford was the type who would go lecture mode on the science/technical aspects of what he's doing in order to calm his nerves and distract himself from worrying about danger while not actually taking attention away from his task (important when a wrong move spells disaster) so if nothing else, its use is an insight on Ford, and even if this is just a fluffy exploration into brotherly feels, I'm sure I can still find a plot use for something that is both highly explosive and highly poisonous ;)
> 
> also, no I didn't really work out how fairybloom powder and its unnamed solvent work, or how its so volatile, because I'm not a chemist and also muuuuultiverse
> 
> also, just a standard reminder that I post this and reblog other things (and occasional post low level ms paint art) on my fandom tumblr: eosrealis.tumblr.com


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